Idolatry
by sephiaz
Summary: What is Fenris thinking when he suggests that his love face one of the most feared warriors in all of Thedas in single combat?  Response to a kmeme prompt. Fenris/F!Hawke.


**A/N:** Response to a kmeme prompt asking for Fenris' reasoning behind offering Hawke up for a duel vs the Arishok, and subsequently getting back together with Hawke post-battle (without the three-year gap). Also an excuse for me to try my hand at second-person perspective. I might not have used it had I realized the story would end up this long, but it seemed to fit with the angle I took on the fill, and it flowed really easily for me. That said, I know second-person isn't everyone's cup of tea, so this might not be to everyone's taste.

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><p>There is carpet and stone beneath your feet, but you are all too aware that you stand upon a knife's edge.<p>

A Viscount's throne room is among the stranger places that you have ever prepared for battle, but then, you've grown accustomed to strangeness in the years you've lived in this city. Madness seems to dwell in the very stone here, seeping up through the cobblestones and invading the blood until it erupts… in rebellion, in passion (but you won't think about _that night_ when the madness caught _you_), and most often, in bloodshed.

The Qunari might as well be comprised of their own incendiary black powder; ignition required only the correct spark. You are not a follower of the Qun – only _you_ will decide your role in life – but you know much of their philosophy, and you have long since realized the inevitability of this conflict. They fill the room before you, an array of Might incarnate: the Ashaad, the Kerashok, at least two Karataam. At their head stands the Arishok, the embodiment of Qunari strength and warfare. Alert and hungry, they stand ready to restore _order_ and _purpose _to this madhouse, as their own roles dictate.

Against this small but terrible army, there is only Hawke to hold back the tide.

Not that Hawke stands alone, of course; Hawke _never _stands alone. At her left shoulder stands the captain of the guard, stern-faced and square-shouldered, projecting confidence. A few paces behind is the dwarf, his casual posture belying the tense way he grips his crossbow. At her right hand, as always, there is you, with a greatsword strapped to your back and lyrium flashing along your skin. In the end, however, you know with all the certainty you possess that it will again, as always, come down to Hawke.

Negotiations are not going well.

They face one another head-on: Arishok, _Body of the Qun_, against a new-money, former smuggler who still has her fingers in a dozen different questionable pots. Neither side will make way for the other; neither can afford to. Battle is imminent. Your eyes sweep the room once more, calculating the number of soldiers, then the number of civilians still trapped in their midst. In truth, you care little for them, and you are inclined to agree with the Arishok's analysis: sheep, all of them, useless and weak. Hawke, however, _will_ care for them, and thus you take them into account in your battle strategy. There are four of you, versus the best and the strongest of the _Beresaad_– with helpless civilians scattered all around.

As you hover on the brink, weighing your meager options, inspiration comes to you. There is another way. You fix that same calculating eye on Hawke, and the Arishok, in turn, taking their measure. Toe-to-toe with a massive Qunari warlord, Hawke appears slender as a reed, insubstantial and fragile. You _know_ her, however, know how she fights, and she is agile, devious, so _fast_ and so incredibly _brave_. She is stronger than she looks, wiry and dexterous... _scrappy_, the Undercity urchins would call her. Your certainty is absolute.

"Arishokost! Qun-anaam ebra-toh." You intervene without hesitation. Your understanding of Qunari culture is, after all, the very reason that she sought your aid the moment the Qunari attacked; you have always been her trusted advisor in these matters. "You have granted this woman _basalit-an_. By this admission, she now has the right to challenge you."

Your focus is on the Arishok, whose lip curls as he growls, "If you truly knew the Qun, elf, you would not suggest I battle a female." But you cannot help but notice the spark of interest – eagerness, almost – that lights in Hawke's eyes.

"But she is no female," you point out, sealing the deal. "She is a respected outsider, by your own words."

The warlord's eyes fix on his opponent. "What say you, Hawke? Do you agree to a duel?"

Beside you, Aveline gapes soundlessly, and Varric is eyeing you narrowly (and not particularly kindly). "I hope you know what you're doing, Elf," he mutters under his breath.

Hawke _smiles_. It is not the gentle, friendly smile she has conferred upon you so many times, the one you've sometimes mistaken for softness, and other times mistaken for pity. This is a shark's smile, greedy and full of hunger. "To the death, Arishok."

You knew she would take the duel, as surely as you know that she will triumph. When you first met her, Hawke was already studying and emulating Isabela's signature man-to-man combat style, and in the years since, she has refined and perfected and _embraced _it. And of course, in the wake of her mother's death, she has grown bolder and more eager for a challenge, almost (but not quite) reckless. The others, you know, disapprove of the way she charges headlong into the thick of battle, where once she would have approached with caution and stealth, but you respect it.

You, of all people, understand the need to kill the pain away, to feast on the adrenaline and the bloodlust until nothing exists but the next turn of the blade.

As they circle one another in the center of the floor, a memory comes to you. Somewhere in Antiva, as you fled the hunters during those first tenuous months of questionable freedom, you sheltered in a small shanty town for the night. From your meager bolthole in a ruined building, you listened to the ragged voice of a beggar woman, soothing her sick child with a tale. It was a parable: the strong, angry bear, bested by the sly fox, the triumph of wit and quickness over brute force. You reckon that you are about to see this tale enacted in living color.

Your supposition is quickly proven correct as blades are drawn and the fight begins. The Arishok charges and rams, slashes and swings his mighty axe, looking like nothing so much as a wounded, angry bull, too _slow_ for the diminutive shadow that flits about him, thin blades finding skin and inflicting a hundred, a thousand tiny little cuts that slowly and inexorably drain the life from him. Hawke is _laughing _as she follows the steps to this familiar dance, and the sight of her is exhilarating. Unhindered by heavy armor or a cumbersome weapon, she flips and rolls and contorts her way around their makeshift field of battle, darting behind pillars to shield herself from heavy axe blows, moving so quickly that she is little more than a smear of dark color against the stark palate of stone.

Pausing for the briefest moment, the Arishok reaches into a pouch on his belt and withdraws a small vial; he brings it to his lips and drinks, and some of the visible wounds on his bare chest close immediately. The crowd of spectators gasps and murmurs excitedly (you hear the word _cheating _muttered somewhere behind you and suppress a grin of amusement), but Hawke only laughs harder, taking advantage of the respite to retrieve a small bundle from her own hip pouch. She tosses it towards the Arishok, and it breaks against the massive bulwark of his chest; a cloud of smoke engulfs him.

Hawke disappears from view entirely.

Seething with frustration, the Arishok turns, seeking his opponent, finding nothing but billowing grey obscuring his vision and burning his eyes. And then there is a flash of movement behind him, and he roars, stumbling forward. Hawke is standing behind him with blades coated in red to the hilts and a self-satisfied smirk on her face. Your own lips curl upward to match. _Well played, little fox._

It is over rather quickly after this.

The Arishok's growing impairment seems to spur her on; she moves faster and faster, twirling around him in a frenetic waltz as he grows more enraged, and the swings of his weapon grow less precise, more _desperate._ You wince as he scores a strike, the handle of his axe connecting solidly with her ribs with a sharp crack, but she does little more than grit her teeth and move faster, spinning and weaving and slashing…

The Arishok falls with a crash that you feel through your feet, murmuring words that you cannot hear over the roar of blood in your head and the gasps and shouts of the crowd, then breathes his last, slumping against the carpeted stairs.

And she looks at you, and with her eyes she says _I did it_, and with your eyes you say _of course you did_.

In the narrow confines of your memory, you have known only slavery and escape, and pragmatism is key to survival; thus, you've never had much use for such frivolous things as _pride_. You feel it now, unfamiliar and so very _huge_ as it swells in your chest and swirls through your head, until you can hear naught but your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then you see the blood. Shockingly vibrant against pale skin, it trickles sluggishly from her left earlobe, splatters her dark leather vest along her right side, decorates the rent in the right leg of her trousers. Your elation burns to bitter ash as you look to her face again, and this time you see past the blinding glare of her triumphant smile, and you note the dark bruises beneath her eyes, the split in her brow, the cut marring the fullness of her lower lip. Even as you stand there staring stupidly, her face pales, and she stumbles, leaning against a ledge for support as her legs threaten to give way beneath her.

The First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander have appeared in the doorway, and the elder mage rushes over to her, speaking to her quietly, his palms already glowing with magic. Aveline and Varric join him at her side, the dwarf sparing you a look of – what? Disappointment? Disapproval? – as he goes, and you stand there like a statue, a prisoner of your own horror.

It is over now; the deed is done, and she has triumphed, as you knew she would. And only now, as you witness the aftermath, does it occur to you that _she could have been killed_. She could die, still, victim to any number of unseen traumas that could slowly leech the life from her body. Your blind _belief_ could very well be the instrument of her demise.

The first pulses of healing magic arc from the First Enchanter's hands to her body, and the backwash strikes you head on, waking you from your daze. You have to get out of here. You cannot (_live without her_) watch this. You cannot bear it if she…

As you back away, towards the door, towards air and freedom, you see her eyes following you, _imploring_ you. Then the crowd separates you, closing the circle around their _Champion_, and you are on the outside, and _it is better this way_. It is not lost on you, that this is not the first time you've abandoned her, not the first time you've led her to the brink and then retreated, leaving her to take the plunge on her own. Guilt flares in your head, and shame.

You flee anyway.

**~#~**

You stalk the darkened streets of Hightown, heedless of the devastation. You know, deep down, that Hawke lives (because _she has to_), but still your mind is overwhelmed with a formless mass of regret and frustration and _fear_ that you cannot shake.

You want nothing more than to go _home_, to slip inside the blessed oblivion of a bottle and hide from this whirl of unfamiliar and unwanted emotion, but your conscience is awake at last, and _hungry_; you see through painfully clear eyes, and there is no haven. You look up at the darkened façade of Danarius' crumbling mansion, and it strikes you that there is nothing for you here. This is not your home; it was never your home. It is a trophy of one bitter victory, a constant reminder of what you were, and what you continue to be, by your own choosing. You _have no home_. A shiver wracks you, and you drop your eyes to the ground and continue walking.

Minutes become hours, and still you wander. The words of the Arishok follow you around every aimless turn, insistent and prophetic.

_Like fat dathrasi you feed and feed and complain only when your meal is interrupted._For four years now, you've huddled in darkness and fed upon your own anger.

_You do not look up. You do not see that the grass is bare._You have been battling a vacuum, chasing ghosts, clutching at old words and old pain, and all the while, you've refused to see the new beginning that awaits you, the opportunity to live and laugh and fight and move forward.

_All that you leave in your wake is misery. You are blind._For a single night, you had happiness in your grasp, in your arms. You tasted freedom, and found the flavor too exotic for your bland palate. So you ran, with no thought for what you left behind.

Wisdom of the Qun, indeed.

Some time in the depths of this never-ending night, your arm brushes the rough wall of a narrow alleyway. You stop dead, looking down at your own skin with a mixture of consternation and sheer wonder.

The lyrium brands etched in your skin are aflame.

This is not unusual in its own right; the markings are never truly quiet. Most of the time, they _resonate_ with a low, steady thrum, like veins of electricity, a constant reminder of the abuses you've suffered at the hands of your former master. They do not _burn_, however, unless touched by magic.

Memory instantly supplies you with the image of the First Enchanter, and the wave of healing magic that spooled outward from his slender form as he rushed to Hawke's aid, hours ago. You stare at your hands in mute fascination, flexing the muscles of your forearms experimentally. For the first time in your memory, something _greater_ than your hate has occupied your mind, and distracted you from the pain.

_Hawke._

Clarity comes with its own unique brand of pain, but also a sense of relief. Since _that night_, the one that haunts your sleep and distracts you in idle hours, you haven't merely set her aside, or cast her away. You were too much a coward to be _with_ her, but too selfish to be without her – so you elevated her to a place of reverence, a high shelf upon which to shelter some unattainable thing, to admire from far below. And at some point, you crossed a line; you lifted her _so_ high, _so _far out of reach, that her inevitable plummet from the heavens could very well have been a fatal fall.

You've forgotten that she is a _person_. And not just any person, but the first person in the short scope of your memory who offered you something to live for other than bitterness and resentment.

You have to see her.

**~#~**

Images assail you, fragments of memory assaulting your mind as you stride towards the estate. This time, it is not the indistinct flashes of some unknown past life, but _real_ memory, the agony and the ecstasy all intertwined. The careful, _gentle_ way she touched you, even in the grips of blind passion. The hollow emptiness in her eyes as she held her dying mother on her lap. The smooth scar on the ridge of her shoulder, where you set your teeth as you sighed your release into her skin, in the moments before elation and memory commingled and their combined power proved too much for you to bear. The little flash of _hope _in her eyes when she first noticed the scarf tied about your wrist, the one that you found mingled with your own things after that wonderful, terrible night and kept for reasons even you cannot fathom.

The truth is, you left _that night_ because you panicked. It wasn't the old memories themselves, the ghosts of faces and words; it was the fact that they had been evoked in the first place, that you had lost yourself so much in _her_ that something had shaken loose. It was simple terror, that a single person could hold so much power over you, could wear away your self-control, shatter all your defenses. In that moment, it felt like _possession_… you were powerless, bare and exposed to the whims of someone other than yourself.

You've no idea how to even _begin_ to make this right; you have no basis for this, no prior experience upon which to draw. You only know that, without your even realizing it, she has become your air, intoxicating and vital and _necessary_, and you cannot fathom losing her.

The Amell estate appears before you, light spilling forth from every window and doorway, and despite the clenching of your stomach and the lingering burn that crawls over the brands in your skin, your pace does not falter.

Bodahn opens the door for you, harried and overwhelmed. "Messere Fenris," he huffs. "Mistress Hawke and the others are in the library."

Your only answer is a curt nod, and you brush past the dwarf almost rudely, relentless and intent upon your goal, so close now that you can almost _feel _her presence.

The library is over-bright and overly-warm, and far too crowded, to your eyes. You recognize the Seneschal, conversing heatedly with a small group of nobles in the corner; there are several of Aveline's guards milling about, as well. The First Enchanter is here, flanked by a pair of helmed Templars, fidgeting and sweating in full Chantry regalia. Varric is seated by the fireplace, watching the proceedings with narrowed eyes and a grimace of irritation.

Then you see her, slumped in a chair on the far side of the room, and your heart leaps into your throat for a moment, and the rest of the room pales and fades into the background. For the first time in possibly a year, you see beyond your own absurd idolatry, and truly _look at her_. You see _Hawke_, who makes singularly un-funny remarks at the most awkward and inappropriate moments, who still robs corpses and hoards little treasures like a dragon because she still doesn't _quite_ believe that she's no longer poor, whose idealism and kindness often far outweigh her common sense. You see a tired young woman, eyes flickering uncertainly about her, unsure how to respond to the sudden, improbable attention being lavished upon her. You see a woman who courts danger and gambles on the fickle affections of Fate because she's lost _everyone _in the space of a few short years, and believes she has nothing else to lose.

You figure that you are a part of the _everyone_ she has lost, and your heart breaks, just a little.

"Everyone out." Your voice echoes through the high-ceilinged chamber, startling in its clarity, and the assembled crowd turns as a single unit to gape at you. "Serah Hawke has suffered injuries, and should take her rest now."

You receive several distinctly mutinous glares, particularly from the nobles in the corner; but the First Enchanter nods sagely. "Quite right," he agrees. "Even healing magic cannot mend bone instantly. Let us leave the Champion to rest and recover." He nods at Hawke, one last time, and sweeps from the room, his Templar retinue and the City Guard following close behind.

The nobles balk, of course, but the hard set of your mouth and the stark command in your eyes brook no argument, and they file out.

Varric is the last to go. He eyes you carefully for a long moment, as though gauging your intent, and then simply nods blandly and takes his leave, pausing only to pat Hawke gently on the shoulder before disappearing into the hall.

You're alone now, just the two of you, just as you wanted; the moment has arrived, and you realize that, of course, you still have no idea what to say, where to even _begin_. Your throat closes painfully.

Across the room, Hawke smiles gently and comes to your rescue. "I owe you for that," she sighs, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "They all _followed_ me back from the Keep, and no one would take a bloody hint…" She plants her hands on the armrests of the chair and begins to stand, only to subside with a wince, prattling on under her breath about _broken ribs_ and _useless healing magic_ and _bloody Qunari mess_…

You cross the floor in long strides and lift her easily, sweeping her feet from under her and bundling her against your chest. "I can _walk_, Fenris," she says with a startled laugh. "Honestly, you don't have to…"

"Hush," you growl as you make your way towards the stairs – and to your surprise, she complies. You are gratified and strangely touched to note that despite the harshness of your tone, she _smiles_, and lays her head on your shoulder with such damnable sweetness. This is how well she _knows_ you, and for perhaps the first time, it is more comforting than terrifying… to be _known_.

It is a short trip to the bedchamber, and it passes in a blur; you are conscious only of the importance of not jostling your injured burden, and of the incredible _heat _pressed against you, the faint burn against the brands where her hand splays across your chest. All too soon, you are standing beside the bed, and you pause there, loathe to relinquish all this warmth that you hold in your arms. Then she shifts against you, and hisses in pain; the strange trance breaks, and you lean forward reluctantly and deposit her atop the blankets.

Again, that expectant silence; she is _watching_ you, and you look away. "You need to rest," you murmur, busying yourself with removing your gauntlets. Uncertainty plagues you, rendering you mute; but though you stand uncomfortably, unsure where to _go _now, you will not run from this room ever again.

She smiles at you, a little nervously, a little unsure herself. "Fenris… I'm alright, really. I've had far worse than a few cracked ribs."

"It could have been much worse," you mutter darkly, the very thought of _how _much worse sending a little shiver up your spine. "You are far too reckless, Hawke."

One eyebrow arches toward her hairline. "I would remind you that _you _suggested this duel," she points out.

"I am a fool," you retort sharply, dropping to perch upon the edge of the mattress, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. "Constantly, you tempt fate, you dance with _death_… and I have encouraged it. No more, Hawke."

Her eyes narrow, and you see it now, the bitterness, the _pain_, and you know that you put it there. "Why do you c-?" She bites down on the last word, clenching her teeth to hold it in, but it hangs there in the air, painfully obvious.

_Why do you care_, she was going to say. Such a way with words she has; the verbal equivalent of your own unique abilities, they pass through all your armor and squeeze your heart painfully inside your chest.

You extend a hand slowly, almost _fearfully_, and lay your palm against her cheek, your fingertips sliding into her hair, thumb brushing the arc of her cheekbone. "Hawke, I…" Her eyes have slipped shut, and she leans into the contact slightly; the sight, the _feel_, momentarily distracts you, shattering your concentration. You draw a deep breath, and stare at the fall of her hair across the pillow as you gather your thoughts. "I am sorry… for leaving you," you begin. The words come out stilted and uncertain, but suddenly the floodgates crash open and you forge ahead, too quickly, determined to have your say.

"I was a coward. It was all… too much, and I ran like a frightened child. I thought it would be _easier_ that way." You laugh bitterly. "I truly _am_ a fool. I thought it was the worst thing I could possibly do… to let anyone get that close. But it _wasn't_ easier at all, and it wasn't the worst thing. I saw you in the Keep tonight, I watched you fight one of the most powerful warriors in all of Thedas, at _my _suggestion, and I… realized…" The words taper off, breaking apart, and the silence stretches oppressively as you struggle to continue.

Her eyes are enormous, liquid and so _open_, so mesmerizing. _Hopeful_… and afraid. "Realized…what?" It is not even a whisper; it is breath shaped into words.

"Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you." The words come out in a breathless rush, and you lean over her, brushing your lips against hers. "Please, forgive me," you whisper against her mouth.

The entire world halts around you for a long, painful moment. She is strangely passive, not pushing you away but not really responding, either, and only now does it occur to you that she might _not want this_, that she might have moved on. You freeze, ceasing even to breathe, feeling as though your very life might depend upon what happens next.

"Fenris," she says, finally, and her voice is so very _small_. "I… need to know if you're certain. I don't think… I couldn't bear it if you…"

You are flooded with an odd mixture of relief and guilt. Relief, because it appears you will have your second chance, one that even you cannot honestly say you deserve. Guilt, because you see, now, the pain you've caused, the trust you've lost. "I swear to you," you whisper fervently. "I may be a fool, but not so much a fool that I would make such a dire mistake twice."

She is silent and still for another moment, and then she relaxes, all at once, with a little sigh. "I forgive you," she murmurs.

This time when you kiss her, she kisses you back; her hands slide up around your neck, skimming across the lyrium markings and sending flares of electricity through you. Once again, you find yourself overwhelmed, by _sensation_ and _feeling_, and this time, you welcome it, set aside your uncertainty and let yourself get _lost_ in it. She is so _real_, and so _warm_ under your lips and your hands; you forget everything else, discard everything but _wanting _her. But then you lean into her too heavily; she makes a small sound of pain in the back of her throat, and you remember yourself, remember what brought you here in the first place. Drawing away reluctantly, you smooth the hair back from her face. "Sleep now."

Her eyes follow you avidly as you stand; you see the moment of panic there, when she wonders if you'll turn and walk out the door again, and you resolve to do whatever it takes to erase that fear permanently from her mind. "Will you stay?" she asks quietly.

You smile down at her, already working at the fastenings to your armor. "The Arishok himself could not drag me from this room."

**~#~**

Some time later, you are stretched out beside her, twirling a lock of her hair through your fingertips and listening to the steady sound of her breathing as she sleeps. You know that you should take your own rest, but you are far too caught up in the moment; you revel in the feel of her against you, how perfectly her body molds itself to yours, how _right _this feels.

It will take time, you know, to regain her trust, to reassure her that you won't simply run away again at the first sign of complication. And Maker knows, you have plenty of your own complications, not the least of which is Danarius' continued existence, his constant threat looming over you. The hate in you, it lives on as well, burning at your very core; in moments like these, however, it is lying dormant, at least, barely registering at the periphery of your consciousness, a problem for another time.

You watch the shifting shadows of the fire play across Hawke's face, and allow yourself a spark of optimism. The pantheon in your head has lost a goddess, but you've gained a future.


End file.
